


the tension in a touch

by asweetepilogue



Series: Geraskier Octoberfest 2020 [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, at this point it's so early on they're really just getting to be bros, but he's stubborn, jaskier is kind of a reckless little dumbass, jaskier was afraid of geralt, monster hunt, this can totally be read as gen, touch as a way of breaking down emotional barriers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asweetepilogue/pseuds/asweetepilogue
Summary: In the beginning, Jaskier is afraid of Geralt. So, like any reasonable bard in search of a muse, he forces himself to get over it. This is accomplished through a gratuitous amount of touching and some reckless endangerment. Only the classics, as far as he's concerned.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Octoberfest 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957933
Comments: 8
Kudos: 227





	the tension in a touch

**Author's Note:**

> Octoberfest prompt: Hover

People were afraid of Geralt.

As Geralt’s half-official barker, Jaskier was deeply aware of this. His main obstacle in improving Geralt’s reputation was not hate, despite what Geralt thought. The witcher didn’t discuss it much, but when people shied away from him, when their heart rates skyrocketed, when they cast him sideways glances, Geralt assumed it was because they despised what he was. A mutant, a freak of nature, a monster. And he was right, in many ways, but Jaskier thought Geralt sometimes didn’t quite understand why human beings hated things. Almost always it was because of fear, and Geralt made people nervous. Jaskier was there to comfort them, and then to rally them. It was a process. 

Unfortunately, as they began traveling together Jaskier realized that he was afraid of the witcher too. It wasn’t something he was proud of, and he hoped Geralt never picked up on it. Jaskier was drawn to the man anyways, of course. He’d been able to smell the adventure on him from across the tavern in Posada, literally. Dirt from the road, old blood rust and an air of tragedy clung to the man like a thick cloak. It had been a moment of clear and crystalized genius, when his eyes settled on Geralt. Jaskier had known that he would follow the witcher across the Continent even before he’d heard the man speak. 

But all his enthusiasm didn’t mean that Geralt stopped being intimidating as shit. Jaskier, fresh faced and still not used to the rough and tumble way of the world, was a little scared of him. Geralt was careful, always projecting his movements and making himself obvious, but something in Jaskier’s hindbrain still raised its hackles and screamed at him to run anytime Geralt was near. It was pure instinct, an animal recognition of a predator nearby. 

But it just wouldn’t _do_. If he was going to convince the world that Geralt deserved to be praised for his deeds, great as they were, he couldn’t be afraid of his own muse. So Jaskier decided that he would just do the exact opposite of whatever his instincts told him to do, until they learned to behave. 

He forced himself to be close to the witcher, all the time. At night when they settled down to sleep, Jaskier desperately wanted to put his bedroll on the other side of the fire. Instead, he plopped right down next to Geralt, receiving a brief glare that made him sweat. When they ate at taverns, Jaskier sat in Geralt’s space, instead of allowing the table to act as a barrier between them. After hunts, he made himself help wash off the worst of the muck and blood and ichor, at least so that people wouldn’t truly bolt at the first sight of Geralt down the street. 

Over time, he found that his palms sweat less, his fingers were steadier, and his heart stayed calm in his chest even when he was pressed shoulder to shoulder with the witcher. Geralt was often snappy, peevish and foul tempered, but he never hurt Jaskier after the first punch to the gut. And that was really on Jaskier for bringing up Blaviken. Generally speaking, Geralt was perhaps even overly cautious. He never returned Jaskier’s friendly gestures, carefully keeping distance between them as if he expected Jaskier to startle at every brush of their fingers. And he had, in the beginning. But slowly he felt himself grow less jumpy, a part of him learning to recognize that Geralt wasn’t going to harm him. 

It was fine, the neutral ground Jaskier had been searching for. Things might have stayed that way, if not for the cockatrice hunt. 

Jaskier had insisted on going along, as they were exceptionally rare creatures. He might never get the chance to watch Geralt fight another, he reasoned, and had worn Geralt down though a slow process of argumentation supplemented by a few strategically placed ales. Geralt had reluctantly agreed, warning Jaskier that he had to stay well away from the fight. 

They had both underestimated the beast. Jaskier got too close, he could admit; Geralt wasn’t paying him any mind, focused on dodging the creature’s massive tail and razor honed beak. It was a fascinating fight. The cockatrice was like a strange mix between a rooster and a lizard, its beady eyes watching Geralt intently as it used the ends of its hooked wings to claw into the ground. The fight was fast, almost too fast for Jaskier to follow. Geralt was like water, here one moment and gone the next, baiting the creature into reckless attacks and popping up somewhere else to hack at its flank. Occasionally the cockatrice would attempt to take off, and a concussive burst of _aard_ would echo across the small field that they fought in, knocking it back towards the ground. 

Everything would have been fine, truly, if Jaskier hadn’t seen Geralt get knocked over by the cocktrice’s tail. He shouted in alarm from his place on the hill, far enough away not to draw attention to himself, if he’d kept his silence. The cockatrice, circling Geralt, looked up sharply at the sound, interested in a potentially less threatening meal. Milky eyes focused on him, and Jaskier felt panic pulse through his chest, so strong he wondered how he ever could have called his nervousness around Geralt fear at all. As the cockatrice turned to advance on him, he knew this was what real fear was. 

In that moment, Jaskier didn’t think. He didn’t do the smart thing, which would probably have been to run back towards the village and try to take shelter amongst the smattering of houses there. He didn’t do the cowardly thing, ducking down to try and hide where he was. Instead, he did the incredibly stupid thing, and ran towards Geralt. The cockatrice, being directly in his path, was probably thrilled. 

Jaskier ran faster than he ever had in his life. The cockatrice was barrelling towards him, and Jaskier took off at an angle, rushing down the small incline towards Geralt, who was already up from where he’d been knocked prone. Jaskier could see the moment that the situation caught up with him, Geralt’s eyes going wide and panicked as he realized the danger. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen Geralt move above a light jog before. The man usually let monsters come to him, rather than the other way around, but he was running now. He was amazingly fast, and Jaskier wondered who was faster. Geralt, or the monster. 

The cockatrice had flown up, gaining some distance. Probably to dive down and catch him with some momentum. It gave Jaskier a precious extra moment, but he could sense the bird-like creature getting ready to move. Geralt was only feet away now, sword held in reverse as he sprinted towards him, and Jaskier’s lungs were burning with exertion and fear. The cockatrice let out a shriek above them, and Jaskier heard a rush of air past its wings as it dove towards them. 

Jaskier ducked. 

Geralt slammed into him almost at the same instant that the cockatrice did, throwing Jaskier bodily to the ground as a shimmering golden field sprung up around them both. The cockatrice slammed into it full force, its huge body impacting with a horrible cracking sound and spinning off to the side. Geralt winced at the force of it, the _quen_ shield shattering apart harmlessly. He was curled protectively around Jaskier’s fallen form, one hand - the one that had been holding his sword, now abandoned - clutching the back of Jaskier’s head. Protecting him from hitting the ground when he fell. 

For one brief moment the two of them were still, Jaskier fighting to get his bearings as Geralt hovered above him. Their faces were inches apart, Geralt’s panting breath ghosting over Jaskier’s cheek. His palm was warm against the back of his neck, and his strong thighs bracketed Jaskier’s hips in a grounding press of limbs. Though the danger had not yet passed, Jaskier felt a sense of pure, undiluted relief wash over him. Geralt was here, and nothing could hurt him. 

It lasted only a second before Geralt was back on his feet, stalking over to the fallen cockatrice. The creature’s wing had been greviously injured in the fall, and it was no hardship for Geralt to dispatch it once he retrieved his sword. Jaskier sat up slowly, wincing at his newfound bruises. Better than a cockatrice talon in the back of his skull, he thought, but he’d still be sore in the morning. 

Geralt stomped back over to him as soon as he’d finished the job. “I told you to stay back,” he growled. His face was stormy, but Jaskier had seen his expression just before the cocktrice dove. It had been just as panicked as Jaskier had felt, a naked fear and determination that Jaskier had never seen on Geralt’s face in battle before. He’d been worried. He was worried still. “I never should have let you come,” he grumbled, kneeling. Warm hands pressed over Jaskier’s shoulders, his chest, working their way through his hair to check for injuries. Where once it might have made Jaskier nervous, now he only felt warmth blossom under his breastbone. 

Placing a hand over Geralt’s where it rest just under his collarbone, he said, “I’m alright, Geralt. I’m not hurt.”

Geralt glared at him. “Not for lack of trying, bard. What possessed you to shout at it like that?”

Jaskier blushed. He was winded from the sprint, heart still pounding away in his chest at how close he’d come to serious harm, so hopefully Geralt would attribute the flush to exertion. “I, ah. Saw you fall. I was afraid you’d been hurt.”

A strong eye roll was directed his way. Whoever said witchers couldn’t feel apparently didn’t recognize annoyance as an emotion, because Geralt was clearly experiencing it. “I would have been fine, Jaskier. You could have died.” His hand was still on Jaskier’s chest, over his slowing heart. Jaskier was supremely comforted by the touch, in a way that perhaps should have been concerning. 

He gave Geralt a look he hoped was sufficiently chagrined. “It does seem I owe you my life, witcher. I hope to be able to repay you.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Just don’t go shouting at any more cockatrices in the near future.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaskier said, and then added, “but I know you’d be there to rescue me if I did.” He gave Geralt a grin, to take a bit of the edge off of the statement. It was too much, he knew, too much trust to put in the witcher’s hands. 

He was rewarded with an embarrassed huff of breath, and was allowed to watch as Geralt’s ears turned just faintly red. It was amusing, but Jaskier knew deep down that it wasn’t a joke. From then on, Geralt would always mean safety to him.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr! [asweetprologue](asweetprologue.tumblr.com)


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